


Journals from the Garden

by Fanfic_is_a_sin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Agender Character, Diary/Journal, Gods, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi, Philosophy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21801532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfic_is_a_sin/pseuds/Fanfic_is_a_sin
Summary: Ilem is the recently, appointed god of gardens and growth. They try, but ever since the death of their coworker, Ollivar -- god of mercy, they struggle to focus on the Garden. These are their journals, as recommended by the goddess of forgetfulness.
Kudos: 1





	Journals from the Garden

To My Dearest Diary, 

Marie believes I will soon forget Ollivar, without steps to avoid it. It is in asking for her worst enemy that I have come to create you, though perhaps the garden is not your proper place. I trust her judgment. After all, she is the goddess of forgetfulness. First, I must say this as much to myself as you -- I do not want to forget Ollivar. I knew little of him, before his death. Even so, the absence cuts to my roots. 

In places below, they must think us hard to replace. Gods, toiling away in heaven, have power and presence and purpose in abundance, it is all I can recall dreaming of before I was chosen to tend the garden. In truth, we change as quickly as the seasons, and with as many slight variations. I myself often encounter the work of my predecessors. The garden is neat, but it has no order, no underlying truth of itself. I suspect the youngest plants were chosen by a romantic. Chrysanthemums, or the idea of them. I should understand what heaven is by now. 

Ollivar was the god of mercy. They tell us our roles are equal, all parts of the greater fabric of life. His, though, would have been a more memorable thread. On the few occasions we spoke, he asked about peace, not growth. The garden was quiet to him, cold as he was to every groan of spreading roots and the sound of soil shifting beneath desperate yearnings from old trees who soldier on beyond the lifespans of gods. No, he would come to sit and contemplate his role. Many do, but most only speak to me in passing. The gardener is owed such courtesy, but it made me feel lonely from my first day, My charges were ever more beautiful than their caretaker. Ollivar, though, spoke directly, and with such an illusion of truth. Truth, he would say, was the first part of mercy. How could one share grace to those whose deepest truths he did not understand?

Of course, he was lying. Not in what he asked or why he came, but in how he talked. Gently, calmly. Like the deep caress of the oceans, in which my most ardent subjects grow. But like those stubborn plants, his beauty and serenity belied the pressure he evolved against. Unlike them, he was not made by circumstance to survive it. 

I hope you don't think too harshly of me for the assumption. Marie says that times come and go, and belong differently to different people. That Ollivar deserves the dignity of making his choice without bring thought of as failing in some immeasurable struggle. But I know the roots of things. I know what people have grown beyond. Marie, before she was what she is, died of fever. She suffered greatly, and wished for nothing more than the power to forget all she would not live to do. I was different. I had always tried to grow, until I began to see myself as a weed. Struggling toward the sun, only in the hope of being stronger than I was. 

It wasn't until news of Ollivar's passing that I remembered what I decided to do about it. But I have grown, and this is not a note to leave behind. He troubled me like nothing has troubled me aside from my empty plot in the garden -- the space I am meant to fill so that I stand among the countless generations of caretakers. And so I went to Marie to put him out of my mind, but she asked what she always does (I know realize). Was I sure? Did I want to leave him behind so that I could move on? And I barely knew him. And I am the god of growth. And I said no without thinking. But gods, they say, cannot be said to make mistakes. I hope I do not forget him. If you can help me do that, it is no wonder that I shall consider you dearest among my many companions. You have no place in the dirt or between the leaves, but I write to you as I spoke to Ollivar: with the hope that my words are kind, and that kindness is sacred even in heaven. 

With the memory of love,

IIlem. 


End file.
